The Formula for Happiness
by CitronPresse
Summary: Post Season 4, Callie reaches a conclusion. Characters: Callie, Mark; Pairing: Mark/Callie. One shot.


Written for a prompt given by EscapismRocks on Grey's Haven to write a story based on Coldplay's _The Scientist_.

* * *

_Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry  
You don't know how lovely you are.  
I had to find you, tell you I need you,  
Tell you I set you apart._

**_The Scientist_**, Coldplay

* * *

"Mark. Can we talk?"

He looks at you and raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything at first. Something happened to him during the last few months and he doesn't really say anything much at all anymore. You thought he might make an exception for you, because you, he, you and him together _had_ something. Still have something, you hope. If you didn't screw it up irreparably.

"About?" he asks cautiously. Evidently your uncertain tone of voice is giving away the fact that what you want to say isn't something straightforward.

"I think I made a mistake," you say in a small voice. "I think I'd like to give it another try. If you—"

The elevator stops at his floor and the doors open and he coughs and brushes past you politely, almost as though he hadn't heard or understood.

"Excuse me, Dr. Torres."

But the weary droop of his shoulders and the slight sigh that accompanies his bland words let you know that he understood you perfectly. Understood and doesn't want to know; or at least doesn't want to get hurt again.

Erica mentioned a while ago that he was more civilized to work with, less of a "predatory ape." Even then, although you were still head-over-heels lost in the throes of yet another relationship you only thought you wanted, you'd wondered what this meant. Because you'd scrubbed in on a couple of surgeries with him and you'd thought he seemed not civilized, but subdued, repressed and other words that people use to stand in for "sad" because they don't want to have to feel anything or care.

It's not really working out with Erica. It's not the sex; the sex is fine; at least it was when you were still having it. Now she works and you think about Mark. Not because he's a man and she's a woman; it's not _men_ you want, it's one specific man. Because the problem is, although you and Erica are friends, there's no real love or connection. You both try, but you both know. And you could stay together. Plenty of people live like that. But Erica's disappointed. And you? You know there's something warmer out there and you know who it's with. It's just that right now you can't even get him to have a conversation with you.

At the last minute, you jam your arm between the elevator doors and rush out after him. But luck is not on your side today and George gets in your way.

"Callie!" George is ebullient. He's a resident now and he's banging a Grey, even if not quite the right one, so life is great for him. And he's desperate to demonstrate that you and he are friends.

He nudges you, three or four times and waggles his eyebrows. You smile tolerantly and try to get past him.

"How are you?!" he effuses and punches you on the arm.

"Not now George," you say, smiling through gritted teeth. If he can be friendly, you can too. But you have better things to do right now than talk to him. "I'm a little busy."

You peer over the top of his head to get a better view of where Mark has gotten to. But you're dismayed when you see his back rounding the corner of the hallway and disappearing from view. You'd plucked up your courage. You'd decided to tell him that you want him. Now you've lost your chance and you'll have to go through the whole process of psyching yourself up again.

But now you only have a half hour until your knee replacement surgery. Talking to Mark will have to wait. You're not quite sure whether to be relieved or frustrated about this. It's time you told him you love him; it's time you told him you're sorry; but it's so hard. You can't quite decide based on your non-conversation in the elevator what his reaction might be. He could be happy; he could just cut you dead again.

Love is a goddamn experiment. You, of all people, are qualified to make that call. But you think the chemistry you have with Mark makes it worth acting on a risky hypothesis. Even if it explodes in your face, at least you'll have tried.

* * *

Hours later, you track him down in one of the surgical department's little labs. He's absorbed in skin and tissue that he's prodding at with a fine gauge double-ended probe and he hardly registers when you open and close the door. Although you notice that the muscles at the back of his neck tense when you stand behind him.

"Dr. Torres I presume," he says in a low voice. He's still polite, just about, but there's an undertone of anger that makes you shy away a little.

"Hey," you say awkwardly and he sighs. "How'd you know it was me without looking?" You smile nervously even though his back is still turned to you and he can't see you.

Mark stops poking at the tissue, but doesn't answer you. Yet.

You take a peek over his shoulder. "Ooh," you say when you see what's in the Petri dish in front of him. "You're expanding into fasciocutaneous flaps now. That could be really useful for limb injuries."

"Uh huh," he says noncommittally.

"You're really into this skin flap thing then?"

"Gotta occupy my time with something," he sighs. "Since I turned over the goddamn new leaf."

You laugh overenthusiastically, then stop short, blushing when he swivels around in his chair and raises an eyebrow at you.

"Something funny, Cal?" he asks.

Oh God, he used your first name. He hasn't called you anything except Dr. Torres in weeks. Not even Torres. And never Cal.

"Yeah. Me," you squeak.

The eyebrow rises higher.

"Yeah," you say more confidently. "I'm funny. It's funny. Anyway, it would be if it wasn't so fucking tragic. It's funny that I always go for the wrong person. And I do _always_ go for the wrong person. I always make it hard on myself. When the right person's been there all along."

He sighs again. "Stop," he says abruptly. "Just stop, Callie, okay? We're not going there again. You've made it very clear what—"

"No," you interrupt, shaking your head. "I haven't. I haven't made anything clear to anyone about anything. But I'm trying to now, so shut up."

He licks his lips and something like a smirk appears on his face. "Shut up?"

"Shut up!" you repeat. You've worked up a head of steam now and that's the only way you're going to get this out. So you need him to shut up.

"I made a mistake. I thought I wanted Erica. And she's great; it's been great. But it turns out . . . " You're actually shaking and you need a second to calm yourself. "It turns out I like penis." You look down at your shoes and add quietly, "Anyways, I like yours."

Mark looks at you steadily but doesn't reply. The smirk has disappeared and no other discernible expression has taken its place.

"I'm sorry," you blurt uncomfortably. "I'm sorry I said you were useless. I'm sorry I let you think I wanted you when all I was doing was trying to work shit out. I'm sorry I didn't know I loved you." You stare desperately at him. "But I know now. I know for certain." Your voice subsides again. This is one of the hardest things you've done in a year that has been far from easy. "I love you."

"It's your scent," he says, apparently irrelevantly.

"Huh?"

"How I knew it was you when you came in. Your scent." He looks down at his lap for a second and then looks directly into your eyes. "It was on all my clothes, my scrubs, my skin even. Afterwards." He swallows. "It's there every time I'm in the OR with you or in a consult." He shrugs. "I could never forget your scent."

This is just too romantic and the moment has to be diffused or you think you might break down and cry with relief and love and sheer wonderment that something, _the_ thing, the thing that matters most to you right now, has gone right, superbly, smoothly, awesomely right. Because things like this don't happen to you.

"So, basically, you're saying that I smell?"

"Right," he says and grins a little, but he's not taking your deflecting bait. He's still serious and soft and quiet. "Like cinnamon and vanilla and surgery all rolled into one. Like yourself."

Your eyes fill with tears. "Oh my God you're lovely!" you exclaim. "I mean, I knew that. That's what I came here to tell you. But you're lovely. You're . . . why didn't you tell me you were that guy?"

He smiles gently at you. "Because I wasn't. Not until the day I told you to go for it with Erica."

You swallow. "It's warmth," you say.

"What is?" he asks, confused.

"With you, for me. It's warmth. You, your body, you make me feel warm."

He raises an eyebrow. "I was kind of hoping I made you feel hot," he drawls. But the look in his eyes tells you that he gets what you mean and appreciates it. That's one of the things you love about him. That he gets you. Effortlessly. It's such a great feeling knowing that somebody finally gets you.

"So you want to try?" you ask. "With me?"

Mark nods.

"So, sex?"

He shakes his head.

"Dinner," he says. "Maybe a movie." Then a smutty smirk spreads over his face and he winks at you. "But once we've gotten that over with, then we have sex. Hot, dirty, very cheerful sex. Three times, at least."

He laughs at himself a little. You know he really wants the dinner and the movie part, because he wants to do things right this time. You know this because you get him too.

You smile. You feel cared for, but you need one last reassurance. "So, we're okay? We're—"

"I love you too, Cal," he says. "Now go back to work. I'll pick you up at 8:30. Locker room." And with that he turns back to the skin flap and starts poking at it again.

You exit the small lab quietly. For a moment you wish George would come by again. You could be perfect, amicable divorcés together. But then you realize it doesn't matter. George doesn't matter. Erica doesn't matter. Not any more.

You made the hypothesis; you performed the experiment; you finally drew the right conclusion. It feels so right, you can't understand why you needed the other experiments at all. Except maybe without them, you'd never have gotten here, and he wouldn't be ready for you. That's what makes it all worth it, everything you went through, everything you put him through, all the false starts. Because you know, in your heart, that with Mark Sloan you've finally found the formula for happiness.


End file.
